insignificant
by ohmygodwhy
Summary: nico di angelo is falling. — nico-centric, exploring his experience in tartarus


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nico di angelo is falling.

he is falling and falling and falling down a hole- or something; maybe not a hole, maybe more like a huge pit, a bottomless pit that has to have a bottom because he knows what's at the bottom. he is falling and falling and falling and he's twisting and turning and he's not sure which way is up or down at this point or how long exactly he's been falling- one moment he's gazing into the gaping pit and the next his fingers are scraping and digging into the gravely dirt in an attempt to pull himself up, in attempt to stop the black hole from sucking him in, but it does, it gets him, and there's a spilt second as he reaches for the edge that he knows he's going to fall.

his fingers can't quite reach the ledge.

he falls.

falls and falls and falls and the air becomes thicker and sulfurous, stinging his throat as he breathes it in and suddenly he's at the bottom of the bottomless pit; he sees tartarus stretching out before him and sees the cracking ground getting closer and closer and he's not sure how he does it but he digs his sword into the wall and slows his descent just a bit- that doesn't mean he doesn't hit the ground _hard,_ head snapping back and rolling along until he comes to a stop and the ground beneath him feels like broken glass, digging into his bare hands and across his cheek and he lifts his dizzy head to see hell unfolding before him.

hell unfolding before him.

he struggles to his feet. hell unfolding before him.

tartarus.

monsters reform much quicker down there, far far underground where they're sent to reform. he kills them and they explode into dust and he only has a few moments to get away before they start building back up again. they reform and they sleep, they wait and burn and form like blisters under the skin of tartarus- the skin of tartarus, the skin the skin he's walking on its _skin,_ walking on it or in it and he feels the pulse underneath his feet.

monsters are much smarter down here, on their home turf. this is where they belong. this is not where he belongs. this place was made for them and this place will kill him- it's a miracle he's lasted this long. monsters are much smarter here and they've had thousands of years to wait, they're much smarter down here and maybe that's partly tartarus' doing, maybe it helps, they're much smarter and the smarter ones find a way to twist into his head, find a way to cut into him with words instead of claws, with voices (" _nico!"_ he hears her scream, and he knows it's illogical and impossible because she's dead and gone and reborn by now but it sounds so real, she's in trouble, she's hurting, she's screaming and so he yells back and runs with everything he has to find her- he doesn't find her—she keeps screaming) that burn into him and then maybe they'll actually attack once he's on his knees with his hands pressed against his ears because it's so loud here.

it's very very loud here, and very very quiet. everything beats to tartarus' rhythm, and it takes everything he has not to fall into it himself.

tartarus is a place for monsters, and he doesn't want to become one, he won't, he won't won't won't but he's going to die and he realizes in the moment when he lifts his hands to defend himself from the bird things that he can't remember the name of when there's blood rushing to his head and adrenaline pumping through his veins, that monsters are made of dust- something he's always knows, yes, but something he's never really _noticed_. everything is made of dust, really, everything has a little bit of it inside of them, a little bit of it in their blood, and dust- dirt- _earth_ is what he controls, what he can rip apart. and he doesn't think as blind fury blurs his vision and opens his hands and he does just that- he rips apart the dust inside of those monsters and rips them apart. he rips himself apart a little too. he's shaking and apologizing because he realizes the horror of what he did and he doesn't want the birthplace of monsters to make him into one—

but he's down here, down in the birthplace of monsters, so maybe that says enough already.

and when he makes it, when he finally- _finally finally finally_ \- catches sight of the doors, big and crowded with all sorts of creatures, so many it strikes him as terrifying, he's caught. plucked straight off of his feet- off of his knees, he supposes, when he raises his sword to fight the damn giant blocking his path and the bastard laughs and kicks and he's weak, weak weak too weak and struggling to his feet again- like a goddamn doll. tossed around like one too, told he'll be the perfect act and the perfect trap, told that he'll probably die either way, laughed at and dropped into a jar- a jar made of bronze and filled with air like the kind in tartarus.

and that is where he will die. he knows this, somewhere deep inside him, knows this when he can barely make a dent in the damn thing with his sword and he starts coughing at the effort, violently and harshly and he's going to die in a jar—

everything, _everything_ he's done, and he's going to die of suffocation in a _jar_ as bait for a ship full of strangers (and percy and annabeth and hazel but he doesn't think they care too much for him) hundreds of miles away who won't come for him if they know what's good for them. he's going to die in a goddamn jar. his father will be disappointed, certainly. he doubts he'll make elysium.

but in here, at least, it's quiet.

he remembers the seeds in his pocket and maybe he'll dream when he draws his last breath.

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he doesn't die. when percy and annabeth fall just like he did, he sort of wishes he had.

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End file.
